


the beginning (of the end)

by jade304



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Afterlife, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 04:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jade304/pseuds/jade304
Summary: “Is it over? Does the sun shine on Eos once more? Does it rise and set as it should?”“Yes. It does.”“Then your part is done, chosen. You have no need for me.”Silence.“You’re right. But I think I should help you out, anyway.”





	the beginning (of the end)

“Leave me be.”

It’s a self-isolation, he knows; he knows that any moment he wishes, he could fall over the precipice and _see them,_ see the countless faces and voices that have been calling to him the moment he arrived. Voices and faces that he hasn’t seen in two thousand years, that his still-hazy mind cannot even remember or place names to. People that had helped him on his journey, that he knows likely believed in him and supported him long after his first death, even if it meant their own. He knows they’re all waiting to see him.

 

He wanders the empty void alone.

 

 

It’s suffocating.

He’d expected the lack of voices in his mind to be a relief; the lack of daemons hissing in his ear, the constant ringing, the constant urge to _go, spread this darkness, spread it so that we can thrive._ There are no voices now, nothing but his own, quieter thoughts.

He still isn’t sure which thoughts are his own – there’s a catalogue of memories, some so real and vivid that he feels they they simply _must_ belong to him. The coming of the dawn can remove the scourge from even the accursed, but it cannot remove the lives that he’s seen, the people he’s turned into daemons. He still struggles to tell what was real, what he dreamed, what belonged to someone else.

There’s memories of a fair-haired woman, of a man that he struggles to separate from his ancestor. There’s another woman, and the memories of someone else who loved her, too. Of people who loved the man. They bleed into his own old grudges, and he fights to keep them separate. He doesn’t _want_ to remember them as he remembers them.

 

 

He doesn’t quite know where he is.

For so long, his soul resided in the crystal; ripped from his body by force the moment he placed his hand on the crystal, his body left to rot and wander the earth. This isn’t the crystal’s endless beyond nor the earth; the ground crunches beneath his feet, the sensation of walking on dirt, but when he looks all he sees is an empty white void. The release of death he sought so badly is awfully bland.

He still hears voices, speaking as if he’s underwater, all waiting for him to surface. He carries on, ignoring them.

 

 

Time passes like this.

He isn’t sure if the concept of time exists in a place like this, but it must be some time since he’s died. Since the blight was purged from the earth, since the king of light had sacrificed himself. The voices have quickly faded away into nothing, but a few still remain. They sound familiar; one in particular never quite leaves him, never quite fades into the endless nothingness.

He tries to ignore that one the most of them all.

 

 

He isn’t sure if he deserves anything better.

Maybe it would’ve been better if his soul were destroyed with the ring and crystal, after all.

 

 

“ _How long are you going to sit here and sulk?”_

He looks up, blearily; he’d taken a moment to sit and rest. Just a moment – walking nonstop is _tiring,_ and he’s still not accustomed to having a human body and all it entails once again.

The person before him is distorted; almost pixelated, like a filter has been drawn over their body. He knows who it is immediately, though, and doesn’t say a thing.

“ _Um. Not that you aren’t entitled to some moping, I suppose, but they keep asking me to get you.”_

“And why are _you_ the one who has to come and hold my hand and help me cross over into the beyond?”

“ _Hasn’t it always been me?”_

He doesn’t respond. After a while, the person fades away.

Just as well.

 

 

“What is it like?”

He knows they’re sitting on either side of them; he may not be able to sort out his own memories from that of the people he’s killed, but he would remember this feeling anywhere. Of both of them leaning against his shoulder, staring off into the distant horizon.

“Out there. I’m sure that’s what you’re all waiting for; me to hurry up and get over myself and get on with it.”

One of them shudders; it feels like a laugh. He can almost hear a voice; _of course you need to get over yourself, silly. You’ve no reason to keep on like this._

He can’t.

“None of you truly want me there, anyway. Either one of you.”

Something ghosts over his shoulder, just for a moment. He shoves it off.

“Leave me.”

They fade away into the muffled sea of voices.

He stares off into the horizon, blank and white and empty as it always is.

 

 

“ _So...what? You don’t think you deserve forgiveness?”_

“Perhaps I don’t _want_ to be forgiven.”

Silence. Then, the blurred figure shifts.

“ _I mean...I can’t say I forgive you. But I do think I understand. At least...a little bit.”_

The person holds out their hand; the same offer, every time.

“ _You’ve already paid your due. Come on, now._ ”

He looks up at their hand, blurred but distinctly outstretched, and scoffs.

“Go bother someone else for a while. I’m thinking.”

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, ever; he feels the presence of one of them behind him. It’s followed him for a few weeks ( _Weeks? Does time exist here?_ ) and has not left his side. He feels something press up against his back, feels the ghost of touch.

_You have nothing to be sorry for._

And perhaps they’re right, if they could say that to him now; he’s fought the dreams of _her_ for so long, killed her over and over in his mind’s eye, driven the knife into her so often that it had gone from a horrible nightmare to a delightful daydream. That’s all they ever were – dreams. He doesn’t feel the urge to fight the presence off, doesn’t feel anything about _her._ He feels suffocating guilt, is what he feels. He feels too much and almost wants to go back to the blissful ringing of the daemons.

It feels pleasant to say, though, so he says it again.

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

“ _There really is something here, you know, if that’s what you were worried about.”_

“Worried about what? Were we just doomed to fall into nothingness, destroyed with the crystal, sent off into the oblivion the gods surely wished to send us to?”

“ _I worried about that, too. But...they’re all still here. I’m still here.”_

“And yet you continue to bother little old me. I’m flattered.”

“ _I’m not quite done yet. I think...I think this is the last part of it._ ”

“Is it over? Does the sun shine on Eos once more? Does it rise and set as it should?”

“ _Yes. It does._ ”

“Then your part is done, chosen. You have no need for me.”

Silence.

“ _You’re right. But I think I should help you out, anyway._ ”

 

 

One day ( _One month, one year, a hundred years, does time exist for him anymore?)_ he remembers.

He remembers an apology, tears, more emotional than he’d expected from his nightmares; the man in his memory kneels before him, begging his understanding. The memory is hazy, tainted by so many others that he’d stolen from that day, but he might understand.

“I might understand,” he says, “but I can’t forgive.”

_I told you. I don’t expect it._

It’s like a weight lifts. He has many weights piling on him, but knowing this one is eased, even a little, is a relief.

He still remembers a trail of blood, of a blade lodged in his chest, of voices shouting and dragging him off to his eternal prison. But he also remembers sitting on the shoreline, body crumbling under the weight of power he isn’t wholly prepared for, staring off at the distant island, regret seeping into every inch of his body.

A small burden lifted, but still one gone.

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

He wants to see _her,_ not this phantom, not this thing that keeps bothering him, keeps by his side like it promised it would, refusing to budge as he carries on into the endless void. It’s been so long, and he’s so _tired._

_Whenever you’re ready._

He doesn’t feel like he ever will be, that he’ll ever deserve forgiveness, but maybe he’s willing to jump in, to just let go anyway.

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

He called the figure here himself; they stand in front of him, waiting, hand outstretched like it always is. His words do not make them waver.

He had wanted to express something else, something _more;_ that he dragged them into this, that they were too _young,_ that they should never have had to shoulder that burden. The words don’t come, and all he can offer is a short, useless apology.

“I’m...sorry.”

The figure _laughs._

“ _An understatement. But a start.”_

He stands before them; it feels like he’s come to the very end of the void, like he’s standing in front of a thin curtain, and once he takes their hand he’ll finally know what is on the other side. He reaches out a hand, touches the air next to the figure; it ripples like water, a small splash of light after he’s looked at nothing but endlessness for so long.

“ _Come on. She’s standing right here. They’re all waiting._ ”

He takes a deep breath.

In.

Out.

He takes their hand.

 

 

It’s still a ways of a walk, but at least he isn’t alone.


End file.
